


Zinnias in the Shoebox

by yikesWazowski



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Character Study??, Dream Symbolism, F/F, F/M, Flower Symbolism, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Mentions of Suicide, Thriller, could come off as pretentious, horror attempt, is probably bad, long somewhat painful monologues, sp00ky, uncomfortable themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikesWazowski/pseuds/yikesWazowski
Summary: (place holder description) Veronica is physically haunted by the sins of her past.
Relationships: Martha Dunnstock/Heather McNamara
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Zinnias in the Shoebox

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: suicide, ghosts, sexual assault (kind of), death, PTSD, depression, mentions of eating disorders, and overall adult themes 
> 
> to all five people who have ever left me kudos, this is for you, baby

Heather Chandler smiled radiantly at Veronica. She was dressed as she usually was, all red, like an overripe cherry. Ever so faintly, Veronica could smell her perfume of wild rose and poppy. The blonde was sitting across from Veronica on her bed, and then Veronica knew something was wrong. “Come here.” It wasn’t a question, Heather was a dictator. “Get up.”

However, Veronica couldn’t get up, she couldn’t move at all. Veronica was asleep and she knew it. “Veronica, get up.” The demand was a roar. “Move, you idiot.” Disgust burrowed into the tone. “You want to move, right? Do it.” Nothing. Veronica was barely trying and it was an odd feeling like all of her veins had been clamped shut and her head had been filled with lead. The normal feeling. Veronica slept alone, so with no one to signal for help, she did what she usually did. She tried to hum. She tried to think of soothing songs to hum, and her mind always came up with the lullaby that her father used to sing for her. The melody was ‘You Are My Sunshine.’

_ Ronnie, my little bunny.  _ Heather laughed, crumpling over herself at the display. Veronica was thinking of the song, hearing it in her mind, but she wasn’t humming. Each note was strangled, strange, and demented if anything more than an attempt. If she wanted to hum, she needed to move.  _ She makes me happy every day. _

Heather began to choke, she was laughing so hard. Hacking, gasping, but there was still a joy to it. She gasped and convulsed. Choking and choking. The sound was wet and painful. Her form began to crinkle and shatter as she dropped lower, ripping at her throat. But her eyes never shut, she just stared at Veronica, eyebrows pulled upward in sick amusement. Her breath was slowly running out, blood pearled at the scratches on her neck. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Heather seemed to get paler, thinner, and her veins tangled up and down the length of her body. The red blood matched her manicure and her dress. The scrunchie seemed to be staring at Veronica as well, despite its lack of features. Blood poured out of Heather's mouth, staining the bed, the wall, and the sheets. Veronica could feel the blood on her, it was cold and slick. Hacks turned into gargles and wheezes. Tears ran down her cheeks, mixing with the scarlet. Heather’s eyes grew flatter as she stared at Veronica. 

Veronica’s eyes opened with a sharp inhale. As the image of her room stayed perfectly, she felt her eyes shut again. And she knew that she still wasn’t yet awake. The room was dark as if she’d woken up at midnight as if the sun, moon, and stars had been stolen from the sky. The air was cold and dry. “Hey,” That voice, so raspy and angry. His laugh, that restrained, polite version of it. The public version. “V, look at this.” Veronica felt her muscles tense from the panic with the strange numbing sensation of being unable to shift. She felt like each little hair on her body was slowly being torn out. 

She could feel his presence. “It’s so funny, V. Come look.” She could feel his weight on the mattress behind her, and she could feel him shake her shoulder. “I know you're awake, V.” The playfulness was leaving his voice until it was as sharp, bitter, and cold as a butcher’s knife. “You can’t trick me. I know you are awake.” It was a threat. She knew it. That was a threat. 

, she needed to be awake, she felt colder. Somehow, hollow. She began to try to hum.  _ Ronnie, my little bunny. She makes me happy every day. _ No noise, just the painful, tearing strain. She heard him laugh again. The weight shifted as he laid down behind her, spooning her. With one arm around her waist and his lips pressed against her ear. She felt his breath against her neck, as it caressed her cheek. She felt strands of his hair poke fall against her face and the way his knee balanced atop her leg. Mockingly, he joined her,  _ “She’ll never know just how much I love her. Please don’t take my Ronnie away. Never take my Ronnie away.” _ Veronica tried even harder to hum, trying to hum louder, trying to block him out. Like claws scratching away at the back of her throat, her voice was raw and her mouth was tired. “You think singing a little song can save you? You’re lucky I liked that song, it’s a new favorite.” 

He pressed up against her back harder, bringing his hand on her waist lower. And she wanted to struggle, to get away, but she was stuck like she was caught in a spider’s web. In his web. On her underwear’s waistband“I like being with you. Why do you want me to leave?” Under her clothes, against her. In between her legs. Rubbing her where she was most sensitive as a reminder of how vulnerable and defenseless she was. He sighed in the way that she remembered. “Beautiful.” It was no more than a mutter. Her stomach dropped and stirred as if being stabbed and tangled. Her breath caught in between scream and groan. It felt like him. It was him touching her. It was the heat of his skin, the patterns in which he had controlled his fingers, down to the fingerprint - it was him. That bittersweet, tantalizing pain that came back when she thought of him like this faded. It was fear and physical pleasure diluted by mere delusion. “Isn’t this nice? Don’t lie - I can tell you’re enjoying it.” Bugs underneath her skin, eating her insides, leaving her skin as a husk.

Bile burned at her esophagus. Hate burned in her mind. She wanted to wake up. She needed to move. His other arm snaked underneath where the neck and the shoulders meet. The dark coat contrasted against his skin - he was corpse-pale. “Don’t fucking move.” His other hand was still busy at work. Squirming organs, her heart thundered like battle drums. Like cannons. Like bombs.

Suddenly, both of his hands were at her face, one choking her, one firmly over her mouth. Without the feel of his fingers on her neck, her trachea cinched closed like a drawstring bag. No air. She must’ve been like that for what felt like ten minutes as she just choked, his touch gone. It was like a blockage in her windpipe, an invisible cord wrapped and pulled. He was gone, his laughter faded away like a fog. 

A genuine gasp, a clutch at her throat. Her heavy eyes opened. 4 AM another early morning. The room was freezing, and yet, sweat pooled everywhere. She did her best to pretend the tears rolling down her cheeks didn’t exist. After silent deliberation, she took a shower. The room felt hallowed by her fears like she woke up in a parallel universe. She had to check to be sure that she had been totally alone, that no one had been tormenting her aside from her own mind. Graveyard-silence. Deafening silence. She almost needed to check that she still had ears. The creaking floorboards and moaning hinges were reminder enough.

Sleep had been scarce for a little while after that year, despite the fact that Veronica was always tired. Every night that she actually remembered her dreams had followed a pattern. She would experience what she thought was sleep paralysis, thinking that she had woken up several times only for a new nightmare to start. In one case, she had reached seven times, that was a fun night. Some of them were closer to dreams, in which she was going other places, but could make no movements, statements, or choices while being able to feel that her body was completely frozen, and then she had more traditional sleep paralysis. On more merciful nights, she just had normal nightmares that were vivid and gory. If she didn’t dream, sleep was spotty and she woke up constantly, tired but unable to fall asleep.

Those sleepless nights proved useful for studying. Law school was almost easy if you never slept. She was going to be a lawyer that specialized in child abuse. Children were the future, and every child deserves a chance for a good life. No one had the right to hurt a human being who didn’t even have the chance to be an adult. Helping children have a better future would be a good way to distract her from her past. Or at least that’s what she hoped. Maybe with at least one good thing on her conscience, all of the nightmares would be gone. All of the fear and self-hatred would fall away. She’d be clean. And free. 

After it had happened, she’d been dragged to interrogations and interviews. She lied. She tried to stay out of the public eye. Everyone had questions about the suicide circle, about the girl who watched the suicide circle. She refused as many as she could, but it was hard. Everyone told her that she was neglecting awareness, and forgetting about the other suicidal teens seeking guidance. The only thing that she showed those kids was how to kill yourself successfully, how to make a scene, and how much attention you’d get after your final act. The only person she was neglecting was the families who would never learn the truth. She would decay with her secret etched into her bones. 

Following the questions from police and news stations, Veronica was asked questions by a therapist as her parents suggested against her will. Every answer was a perfectly scripted lie, a misdirection made to distract and get her out as soon as possible. Her deepest fear was deciding that her secret was worth getting off her chest. A shoebox held all of her old diaries. Those, too, would be buried with her. The pages of her journal served as her therapist. All of her sins had been confessed within the flowery, dusty covers. When something strange happened, or she had a new nightmare worth writing about, she diverged it all onto the ink-stained pages. Part of her hoped that someone would read her secrets and kill her on the spot. Part of her wanted to burn that wretched box. 

At the bottom of the shoebox sat polaroid pictures of the people that she once knew. The much talked about suicide circle. That scrunchie festered and collected dust with them. The tragic memoirs hadn’t been touched since 1989. 

Sometimes, Veronica joked to herself that she had created a Pandora’s box. In many ways she had.

* * *

“Eggs again, I see,” Heather McNamara had offered for Veronica to move in with her and Martha after highschool. After it had all happened, Veronica decided that ivy league schools were her only option, and her parents watched muted enthusiasm as their daughter left them for Yale. McNamara had discussed it with her and, after a ton of money and charity work, she and Martha were there along Veronica’s side. They lived in the largest apartment off campus that they could afford within Mr. McNamara’s outlined college allowance. Veronica would forever be in debt to the McNamaras for their kindness and Martha for being such a supportive friend because Veronica would have probably hung herself by now if she were alone. And it would be a real, tight noose that time.

Veronica only hummed in response. Heather smiled. Every conversation seemed to go the same since it had happened. She contributed hardly anything, deciding it was best she kept her mouth shut unless she wanted everyone to know that she was a murderer. Veronica was an idiot. And sometimes, the tension would finally bubble to the surface and break, and Veronica would cry. She’d mumble about how stupid she was, about how she was a chore to be around, but Heather and Martha never faltered. They would lie to her, support her, and almost convince her that she deserved to be happy like they were. Maybe one day, she’d live in blissful ignorance and pretend that she was just as valuable as every other person. Maybe one day she'll be convinced that she was worth the oxygen. Maybe one day she would be able to pass as a human being.

Many days Veronica wondered if her soul could be in Hell while she was still alive. Sometimes she wondered how many of her friends she would have to face in Hell. Then again, maybe she was dead, and maybe she did hang herself. There was always a chance that this was her personalized Hell already. This would go on forever. What a sick nightmare - having Hell be living your life after your death. What torture that would be. Not that Veronica deserved any kind of pity or mercy.

“Good morning, Veronica,” Martha’s voice was so soft. Sometimes, they spoke to Veronica like she was made of glass. They treated her like her legs would give out at any raise in volume and then her face would shatter on the floor. Blood would stain the tile. Veronica chose to hum in response again. 

“Don’t forget about me,” Heather squealed as she wrapped her arms around Martha and they shared a brief, chaste kiss. Martha had felt much better about herself after finally being able to reveal her sexuality, the same story for Heather. Often, they would sorrowfully thank Kurt and Ram for paving the way. Veronica would try to hide her internal war and then nod.

Armed with freedom, Martha had dedicated herself to further self-improvement and empowerment. On every other day, she and Heather would have workout sessions, and Veronica could tell that she was losing weight as well as recovering from her suicide attempt. They also had weekly date nights during which they would do anything like crafts, spa treatments, cooking, or movies. Martha was being brought out of her shell by Heather, and Heather was learning more about loving herself and others from Martha. All the while, they encouraged each other to keep attending therapy and picked each other up when they fell down.

They were like the walking embodiment of a Norman Rockwell painting, but they were a strong lesbian couple who wouldn’t let hate get to them. Veronica was happy for them, but also entirely jealous. The kind of jealous that didn’t lead to anger or annoyance, instead it made her want to cry while she watched them. It was jealousy that made her do stupid things like go on dates, and have a panic attack as she snuck out the bathroom window before she cried herself to sleep. It was the kind that made her curl her knees to her chest as she wondered what would have happened if he were normal. What things could’ve been if he didn’t ruin everything. She’d only cry harder when she thought about how she could’ve been happy with him even if it were impossible - even if it were a lie.

While Martha was losing weight, Veronica was trying to put weight on. She was thin enough that she could be confused for someone with an eating disorder or someone who had gone through chemo. She looked fragile and stiff, like a small porcelain puppet. She had always been pale, but she swore that she’d gotten paler. There was hardly ever color in her face like she was always sick. Bags were like deep violent bruises that were swollen around her eyes. Her lips were often chapped from how often she licked and chewed on them and her way of neglecting caring for her lips. Her hair was either brushed so frequently that it was stringy and flat, or so rarely that it felt like grabbing the hair from a shower drain. Whenever Heather tried to give her gentle, kind advice and beauty kits, Veronica could only think of Heather Chandler and her beauty escapades. 

Everything about Veronica was gray, especially her eyes, which used to be a shining silver. Her eyes were a cloudy, fog colored gray. When she went out she tried to make them silver again. She wore fashionable clothes as long as they were loose and comfortable. Every morning, Veronica put on a bright, lively mask of makeup, and tried to dress as normally as possible. Occasionally, to pretend she left the house like a living person, she put bandaids on her knees. When she looked in the mirror she nearly convinced herself.

Just because she looked the part, doesn’t mean she ever acted correctly. She was like being friends with a porcelain doll. Martha and Heather would take her places in an attempt to help her feel, they’d give advice from therapy, and even tell her that she should attend therapy again. Veronica would politely ignore both. When they left the house with her, she’d be normal to a point, then she’d fall silent, think and think and think and spiral and wonder when her brain would stop screaming, and then she’d announce that she was sorry and that she had to leave. Sometimes, when they were talking to a well-known acquaintance, Heather and Martha would embarrassedly explain that she was just strange like that. They spoke like she was their socially awkward child who had done something freakish at a wedding or something. They did damage control like she was an untrained puppy while explaining her case like she was on a said commercial. 

She only had new friends because they hadn’t met her damage or pitied her and were entertained by her tragedy. On one occasion, someone had opened their mouth, and a boy had wanted to date her so that he could be the one to fix her. Veronica was like dissecting a frog, a fun, gross, depressing experiment. Everyone in Sherwood had felt that way, and they had all of the context as well as a way to talk to her parents. That’s why she wanted to be in Connecticut. That and the crater in the football field, she could never go back. It sickened her to see the seances in the graveyard. On a primal, foolish level it scared her. Maybe they’d contact them and the truth would come out, but ghosts weren’t real so Veronica left Sherwood without a single regret. 

Heather Chandler was put six-feet-under first. Her grave was under a tree with a bench donated by the school. It had a sculpture of a small bird on it. On the back of the bench, there was a tasteless plaque of the Chandler suicide note. Kurt and Ram were buried next to each other with a small fountain donated by the community. On it was another plaque about the plight of homosexuals and lessons on acceptance. In the cheapest, most forgettable lot in the graveyard was his grave. Bud Dean bought the lot, he didn’t host a funeral, didn’t even stay around for the lowering of the casket, and then he left for some other shit town. The only thing the community provided after he died was bomb drills. 

“You guys are so cute together,” Veronica sighed in a playfully exasperated way. She took her eggs off the heat. “Too cute together, actually.”

Heather’s giggle was like bubbles. “You’re so sweet, Ronnie.” Heather McNamara was pretty, athletic, nice, and even almost academically inclined thanks to Martha’s influence. Because of indecision and money, Heather decided that she would go into the family business. That was her major, and her minor was in finances. Martha was going to be a school teacher, and she was working hard at it, too. Veronica knew that she’d be good at it, Martha was wonderful.

“No, you two are,” Veronica began to thaw herself for the day, so she could talk like everything was fine. On surface-level everything was fine. Air was breathable, and water was drinkable. The world wasn’t ending. Everything was fine. “Not only between both of you but to me as well.”

“Oh, please! It’s no trouble, no trouble at all,” Yellow was still her favorite color, but now she treated it like a favorite color. She liked it, but it wasn’t the only thing in her wardrobe. “It’s really stellar to have you around - more selfish than sweet.”

Martha nodded, as she cleaned her glasses. “Heather’s right, Veronica. What are friends for?” Veronica nodded, relenting. 

“I’m just really glad that you two are my friends,” And she was. The only other classmate that she thought about was Heather Duke, who had fallen out of contact with them after graduation. Veronica wondered how life was treating her but guessed that she was fine, considering that she didn’t even bat an eye after the gruesome, grisly deaths of her peers. 

“I think I speak for both of us when I say that we’re equally happy that you’re our friend,” Martha looked at Heather, who nodded in confirmation. 

“Oh, totally. If not more stoked,” Heather said with a childishly serious nod. Veronica wondered how often Heather missed her old friends of the same name. Did Heather even consider them as friends or were they just tormentors? Heather McNamara’s pain was ignored, she was insulted, raped, and treated like her life meant any less than anyone else’s. Even if they were horrible to Heather, especially Chandler, could that ever justify murder?

Veronica decided to stop brooding before she even really started. “Hey, today’s Friday the 13th of October, that’s certified scary.” She said as a change of subject. Halloween had always been Veronica’s favorite holiday. After what happened she decided that she would stop watching horror movies. Martha was probably too happy when she decided that she was done with all of the scary movies. Now Veronica was caught up in the witchy, gothic fashion. Most of all, she appreciated a chance to be someone aside from herself. She liked dressing up and getting to forget herself in all of the cobwebs and candy. She liked how many people stayed up late, telling stories about vampires and werewolves. Nothing was better than sitting in a circle, huddled tight, as kids plundered for candy and couples cuddled to soothe fears. Then there were pranks and the spiritual aspect of the holiday, the seasonal significance, and so much more. Halloween could be taken in so many enjoyable, distracting directions.

Heather seemed to be excited by this too, “Do you know what else is special about today?” She gave neither of them any time to guess, but Veronica didn’t have to to know what she was going to say, “It’s Jennifer’s birthday this evening! Aren’t you excited?” Because of the drinks, snacks, and clothes, Heather also loved Halloween, but mostly for Halloween parties. “I can’t wait! In fact, if it weren’t a lame thing to do, I’d totally show up early.”

Jennifer Turner was an acquaintance who was just on the cusp of friendship for the three girls, but Heather’s actual friends would also be attending, so it was determined to be worth attending. Martha didn’t mind parties, but she wasn’t exactly the kind to dance on tabletops. Veronica liked parties, they were loud and full of life. Opportunities and stories burst at the seams. When the music blasted, the lights were dim, and the world was free around her, she almost felt like she’d never made the mistake. She felt like she wouldn’t be disgusted if she looked in the mirror, and that there was no highschool. No Sherwood. No Veronica being unraveled. No Veronica at all. 

That was aside the point, the Turners were made of money. There were probably gold busts of Jennifer as decoration in her mansion, kind of rich. Jennifer had roommates, but she also had a whole, fairly large house. Beyond that, Jennifer was outgoing and thus had a lot of friends. Ultimately, she was a lot of fun, and Veronica guessed that her 21st birthday would match her reputation. 

“What time is it at, by the way?” Martha asked as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. 

“Nine, but it’s going all night,” Heather said with a smile. “I don’t know if we’ll stay all night, but it’s always an option.” Going all night, meant that there didn’t have to be a designated driver, and if they wanted, they could all throwback jungle juice until they couldn’t walk. Veronica debated if it was worth the inevitable humiliation if she drank at the party. Doubtful.

“What are we bringing?” Martha was now sitting at the dining table that could seat no more than four. 

Heather laughed. “A cocktail kit, silly. She  _ is _ turning 21.” 

“Clever,” Veronica remarked as she gathered her bag and coat. “See you on the other side, ladies.”

“Bye, Ronnie!” “Bye, Veronica.” Martha and Heather’s voices competed as they talked over each other.

Morning classes seemed obvious after waking up as early as Veronica did. She attended classes, studied, and sometimes tried to force herself to remember to eat. Rinse. Repeat. Every day. Except for Sundays, those are her days off. Her days where she punishes herself by having nowhere to go. On Sundays, she is stuck alone with her thoughts and memories. The worst day of the entire week.

But that doesn’t matter. Not on any day that isn’t Sunday. 

It was hard to believe that this was a mostly recovered Veronica. After it had happened things had been severe. There were times where she could swear that she heard Heather’s voice and saw her out of the corner of her eye. She was always grotesquely pale, and off-color, but Veronica had known that it was Heather. Sometimes she would hear the gunshots as Kurt screamed, pleading for his life. When she would fall asleep, her mind would become fuzzy and swirl in puddles of her emotions and memories, and there was a white buzz in the back of her mind. Then a steady tick, and then silence. After that a crash, a crumbling, the kind that made her head hurt, that made her vision spin, that took her breath, the kind that made her ears ring. She would wake up with a scream. 

She used to have attacks and voices. Things that she kept to herself. Nightmares. Throwing up every time she ate. She was either scared or angry all of the time, and for the first time in her life, she could reason with herself. She couldn’t tell herself that it was over. It had happened. They were gone. Her head was in a fight with herself. She used to act like a rescue dog. She used to be miserably depressing to talk to, she couldn’t even try. 

For a while, the whole school had been shaken up as they found out that all of them could have died that night. Some students took that as a reminder to live every day like it was their last, while others broke down sobbing in the hallways. Teachers were so paranoid that they would search every room before any sort of gathering. There were limits on how many bags a student could bring to school.

Parents screamed and protested about the lack of protection for their children. They said that more students needed mental and emotional attention. They said that violence needed to be reexamined in every aspect of childhood activity. Some parents said that violating privacy would only make kids feel more controlled and would probably lead to more death. Sherwoods finest had seemed to reach the agreement that since it was just some asshole from out of town that tried to fry every student alive, that meant that no one outside of the tight-knit community can be trusted. Teachers said that if they wanted kids to be safe so badly that they should monitor their own children.

The worst result of the big suicide ring was more kids trying to kill themselves. Peter Dawson tried and suffered permanent brain damage. Courtney tried to overdose. Matthew tried to hang himself. Emily tried to slit her wrists. Betty ran in front of a truck. More outrage. With every protest, every argument, every person who wanted to save the kids another child went ignored, passed up so that every adult could resume their holy war.

Sherwood had been cemented into the United States collective conscience as more news stations arrived on their doorstep. Lights. Cameras. Action. They dropped like flies. Every day there was more emphasis that teenagers had nothing to live for. Parents would watch the news being broadcasted from their front porch, deciding that they should be more concerned about Heather Chandler than their actual child. 

Worst of all, it had felt like he was right. American tragedy was the only way that you could be heard, but the message would never be listened to. When someone dies, their neighbor pops popcorn. The only thing that could ever possibly make everyone equal was death. And that felt correct, at least in sleepy Sherwood, Ohio, but it would never be right.

At least that’s what Veronica told to herself when it was all crashing down around her. When she watched it all unfold, the way she polluted so many lives. Knocking at every door, taking children and no one had a lambs blood. Just next door to the agony was the catalyst. So much sorrow at the same time that it had become nothing at all. So much screaming that it was silent. Veronica tried to ignore the numbers and the grisly details.

But it seemed to follow her. The images. The sounds. The smell. The taste. The noose on her neck and the gun against her temple. When she was feeling superstitious, she vaguely wondered about the possibility of being cursed. Maybe she was the vessel that carried the plagues, the bodies in the streets, and the nooses. That was an idea that she couldn’t emotionally take nor reasonably explain.

It was two years ago. She could move on. She had to, even if every day she wondered how selfish it was. 

She was better now. Everyone was better now. The world had stopped. Sherwood was gone. She was never going back. No one was ever going back. Things were fine again. Mundane, even.

Mundane. Drudgery. An endless cycle until she was ceremoniously thrown into a ditch. Lectures, projects, and textbooks were all fairly easy for Veronica to follow along with. She could handle the workload and take notes even if it felt like she didn’t have a head. Her hands knew what to do and her brain produced the correct answers during tests. School was as challenging as she’d thought it would be, just stressful. Tension pulled her words taught and thin.

The hardest aspect of college was the social aspects. Veronica could talk to people for some time, she could smile and laugh, but it never was fun. She never was taking a break by socializing. Fun was accomplished through reading and occasional calligraphy. People walked in and out, Heather told stories and secrets. Veronica was awkward and unwieldy. However, Veronica liked parties. People watching was fine and so was a distraction. The party would be fine.

* * *

The evening arrived sooner than Veronica had anticipated. She had been napping after her studying at the library. It was when the apartment was empty because both Martha and Heather were gone to take care of groceries, jogs, and their own classes. After 1:30, Veronica had the place to herself until 6:00. 

When she first arrived, she had decided to tighty up the apartment, like a good roommate should. After that, she read another chapter of the book she was currently re-reading for what must have been the hundredth time, _ Catcher in the Rye.  _ She was curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around her to make up for how cold the apartment could get. All the while she kept the TV on low in the background to feel less alone. In her comfort, she fell asleep. At first, she was in and out, fading into partial consciousness as reality curled around her senses like smoke.

Martha and Heather must’ve seen her and had decided that because of her known problems with falling asleep that they should let her rest, but Veronica really wished they hadn’t.

A regular sleep. A dream, just a regular dream. Veronica was in a small town, quiet and cozy because of its distance from real civilization. It was lined by a forest that made it practically inescapable. The residents were rather rude to her but gave her a tour regardless. There were mostly farms, the town was defined by golden wheat. Veronica made herself at home ignoring the crooked people who shared the locations.

She was in a long wheat field. The sun beat down on her. Torn up clothes adorned her as she headed for a deer sat in the field, peaceful. The doe was beautiful and graceful. A sloping figure that was golden brown, and kind enough that she let Veronica sit beside her. Her fur was soft under Veronica’s palm. The deer closed her eyes in implicit trust.

Rocks sat in the wheat field, caked in dirt and mud, which was unusual for a well-kept farm. Dogs barked and growled in the distance. There was no more peace, instead, there was nothing at all. One hand on the deer and the other on a rock.

The impact crunched at the deer’s skull, but wasn’t solid enough to kill her, just knock her over. Blood was like ribbons defining canyons and valleys in the dirt. Veronica was splattered with it. It was on her face and her clothes with the dirt. The rock was no longer in her hand and hadn’t been for a while. 

Flies buzzed in her ears as she peeled one bloody strip of skin off of the deer. The light was fading. She could still hear the dogs, barking and growling. The skin was leathery in her mouth. She peeled off another sticky piece of the animal all while it was alive, screaming. Into the mouth. And another piece of skin. Eat. Skin. Eat. Blood gushed and oozed, getting to be such a dark shade of red that it was almost black. More flesh was caked under her nails. Dirt and flesh. She shoved into her mouth so violently that it would splatter and drip all over her. 

The deer slowly rot before her eyes. Flies buzzing. Bugs. She could hear the dogs getting closer. They were so loud. When she saw them, she gave them each a piece of slimy meat before picking up the rock again. After smashing the dogs’ skulls in, she dragged them back to their owners. The same cruel family that showed her around the disgusting little town. As they all prepped to eat the dogs, one of them smiled at Veronica. A sick, toothy grin, “Whatever did happen to Heather?”

Veronica woke up with a start, sweaty and sick to her stomach. She felt like she was going to cry. She didn’t feel like herself. Martha was doing some assignment next to her. “Are you okay, Veronica?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” That usual hollow after a nightmare. “Where’s Heather?” Martha smiled.

“She’s not here yet. We don’t have to brush over how you’re doing, you know? If you want to talk, we’ve got plenty of time,” Martha set her things aside, devoting all of her attention to her friend. 

Veronica was a sheet of paper, her organs were like rapids, and her head was branded with searing pain. Things had felt as wrong as they usually did. “I’m fine. I really am. It was just a bad dream.”

“I’m sorry, Veronica. Bad dreams can really shake someone up,” That fragile tone was back. Martha shook her head. “I once had one that had me feeling weird for a week.”

“Oh, I doubt this one is that bad,” Despite how graphic it was. Despite the fact that she could feel the gore in her hands. “I’ll be over it by nine, I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t have to be,” Martha said gently.

Veronica forced a lopsided smile, “Over it?”

Martha shook her head. “Sure. It’s okay to not know when it will stop, as long as you trust that it will.”

“Right,” With a faux thoughtful look, Veronica hoped that Martha would drop it. “What time is it anyway?”

“Like half-past six, I think. Heather will be back at seven, or at least that’s what she said.” Martha resumed her usual behavior, picking her homework back up. She gave Veronica one last worried glance. “Are you sure you're alright?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine,” Veronica chuckled. “I can take care of myself, I’m a big girl, now.”

They then sat in silence, Martha doing work and Veronica continuing to read. She flipped through pages, they flapped like the wings of doves. She read without comprehension. She can’t forget the dream, she goes over each beat, each element. She’ll write it down later.

Ever since the nightmares started, every single one had been recorded. They are memories, feelings, and so much more. Freud said that they were based in confusion and unattainable things. Dreams were her brain in its least nuanced state trying to sort out her problems and neatly return them to her. It was her mind trying to make it through the winding maze with answers while trying to fill in the gaps made by her brain trying to forget. It’s too much feeling, too much pain. Her brain decided to try to forget it entirely in order to cope. Veronica could not forget no matter how hard her brain tried. When the memories grew fuzzy she reread the diary.

She tried to do research on nightmares and sleep paralysis and insomnia and the like, but only brought herself to dead ends. Before science, the theory was demons and ghosts. After science, only Freud had tried to explain dreams, in a way that made sense to Veronica, at least. Some people suggested that it was based on thoughts of the day, and others said it was dependent on eating habits. Freud had told her that she was looking for answers, and that was an answer that she could accept.

So she wrote them down, even though it was stupid. Without logic, without reason, she baselessly hoped that if she looked back on her dreams, she would have a solution. A way to fix something unchangeable, an understanding of the situation that didn’t exist, and would never exist. Maybe that’s what she wanted most, a reason. A real reason. Not that he was angry, not that it seemed easy, not that Sherwood needed it, and not that his mom was gone. She needed to know why it was her he chose, and why he felt like ruining her life in the first place. She still didn’t know why she ever trusted him or why she ever felt bad for him. Even why she left Martha in the first place. 

There were no answers no matter how many times she reread her diary. So that’s why when she wakes up her eyes are still shut. The dream was never over before she woke up, and no one ever gave her knowledge. And she was scared and disgusted by her dreams, but she was more scared of her reality, that’s where it all came from. It was her reality, the way the clock never stopped ticking that scared her. It made her stomach twist, and her body feel far away. Her head hurt. And it made her angry and tired. She never wanted to speak. She wanted to curl up and die. She wanted to dream until she had the answers. Until she woke up two years ago and made it all stop.

When Heather came back at 7:30 she announced that if they really wanted to look nice, then they had to start getting ready at 8:00. During the thirty-minute wait, they all worked together to wrap the present and write a long card. Then it was teasing hair, choosing skirts, and steadying hands while drawing on the perfect eyeliner. The three tried to choose comfortable, yet fun, festive outfits. Heather declared that she was using a Halloween only color pallet, Martha wore a form-fitting sweater detailed with a black cat on the front, and Veronica tried to look witchy and modest to protect her from the cold and prying hands of drunk men. Shoes were also difficult according to Heather, having to be cute while not destroying their feet. She was at DEFCON 2, searching through her heels for the perfect pair.

With total confidence in every aspect of their appearance and the gift in hand, the girls went out the front door at 9:10, arriving at somewhere around 9:30. Martha drove because she was a responsible driver. Both Veronica and Heather drove too fast, and Heather didn’t like driving anyway. Jennifer’s house was as decorated as it would’ve been for Christmas, but with spiders and vampires. A lot of people were already there dressed in a pretty witchy fashion, crystals and little black dresses. It wasn’t a costume party, just a themed birthday party, but apparently there was a memo that they had missed out on.

Veronica took a deep breath for the night because she knew it was going to be a long one. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading. A couple of things I should mention about this story:  
> A lot of the experiences and dream sequences are heavily based off of that of my own  
> This is my first time attempting horror  
> I didn't do as much research as I usually do for these things  
> As all of my writing is, this has never been beta read  
> I just write to fight off boredom, but I'm always open to constructive criticism 
> 
> This is dedicated to everyone who asked me to make a sequel for 1995 Rerun (which I am considering - if you have ideas let me know)
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined, and maybe drop a kudos if this was at least interesting to you.


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